The study of history is the best medicine for a sick mind. For instance,
there is an ancient city living in the dark
                       on my tongue. When whatever God it is
opens my mouth and makes me speak, the city buzzes to life, foretelling
its own demise:
stones crumbling, events unfolding exactly, I tell you, as will be
recorded in the books years from now. Finally, what once hummed with
underground baths, vaults
                       secret as the insidious thoughts of the elected body,
will be buried, crushed inward, collapsed under its own misbegotten weight.
The other patrons at their tables
                       turn and stare, amused, aghast,
but, mostly, entertained. It is hard to keep my overfull mouth shut.

_______________

Other times, I unclench my teeth, and everyone stops clattering
silver, stops stirring coffee spoons, and listens
                       expecting a good story,
but what they get, finally, is the ticking of the clock on the ancient square,
the ignorant people,
                       each of them at their work behind one thousand windows,
blowing glass, stitching leather, filling out the countless forms, which are,
after all, necessary
                       to the goings-on of any city. History is, finally, a strange
and unpredictable thing. It turns on its heel and falls flat when you least expect it to,
but, mostly, it is uneventful.
                       This said, I have learned to keep my mouth closed,
the back of my tongue pressed firmly to my teeth, as best I can.

_______________

I might add that, beyond my tiny city, careful observation of your larger world
is essential to my stability.
                       See, over there, a cockroach balances
on the teacup's rim, contemplating, perhaps, the drop on either side.
The waiters constantly refill the water glasses.
                       A man at the booth next to ours
leans over the table so his tie touches the edge of his plate and says, half seriously
to the woman whose long fingers curve around the stem of her glass,
                       If we miss
the play, there's always the couch and VCR at my place. Up to you.
She raises her eyebrows and smirks, but doesn't check her watch.
                       With my teeth
tight like this, the restaurant maintains its usual drone, that cigarette smell wafting
up and out of the smoking section, the ease and hiss of the front doors.

first appeared in River Styx